


the sun belongs to us

by shyberius



Category: Frenchman's Creek - Daphne du Maurier, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cornwall, Fluffy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pirate AU, Pirates, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock pirate au, daphne du maurier - Freeform, frenchmans creek, frenchmans creek au, pirate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-02-15 17:05:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18673867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyberius/pseuds/shyberius
Summary: When John leaves London to holiday in his abandoned estate in Cornwall, what he expects is a few weeks of peace, an escape from his unsatisfactory everyday life.But when he crosses the path of a pirate who he's been seeing in his dreams, everything changes. This pirate makes him question everything he's ever known, even himself. John will never be the same, nor does he want to be.





	1. however much we pretend to be free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Johnlock au of the historical romance novel Frenchman's Creek by Daphne du Maurier. No prior knowledge of Frenchman's Creek is required! It's just pirates and falling in love.

_“How pleasant,' Dona said, peeling her fruit; 'the rest of us can only run away from time to time, and however much we pretend to be free, we know it is only for a little while - our hands and our feet are tied.”_

John was thinking about pirates.

Or perhaps pirates was the wrong word. He was, in fact, only thinking of one pirate. He didn’t have a name, this pirate, nor did he have a recognisable face. He was more of a feeling than a person - a dream, an intangible feature of the deep recesses of John’s fantasies. The only things John were sure about there these: that he had dark hair, and a long cloak that billowed behind him like a malevolent shadow.

“Are you having fun, darling?”

Back to reality. Quickly, before anyone here noticed. Before someone asked him what he was thinking about, and his private imagination became as irredeemably intertwined with the public sphere as he currently was.

It was Mary who had been speaking. She looked cross, John thought hazily, only he didn’t care much about it. He really should have cared more. “Of course I am.”

“Here. Have another drink,” she declared, as if a drink were the solution to John’s dissatisfaction.

(It wasn’t. But a glass of Moriarty’s finest wine was a start.)

John glibly accepted his wine, lifting it to his lips and inhaling the sickly sweetness of it. This whole party was sickly: overblown, past its prime. But John had known that, of course, before it had even started. It had always been like this.

After a generous swig, John took it upon himself to observe his surroundings. His pirate daydream had seemed so real at the time, that he’d neglected all else other than pleasantries with the other guests.

There was the usual crowd: Moriarty, in his full military uniform (very successful, very rich, and very loud about both things), Lestrade, sucking up to Moriarty as per usual, and John’s own brother, Harry, chatting up another lady with a painted face.

On the topic of painted faces, Mary was looking particularly vivid tonight. It was at times like these, when she donned her ruby red evening gown, that John was reminded of why he’d fallen in love with her in the first place. The contrast of the dark lace against her white arms, a detail that John had always admired, stood out to him tonight in particular.

But sometimes love wasn’t enough. Mary herself, despite her shallow ways, wasn’t the problem. Though her partying habits were unsavoury, as was her gossiping nature, Mary genuinely cared for him. It would take a fool not to see that. Where the real problem lay - the reason John had to escape into his pirate fantasy at all - was with everything. With this. Every evening the same: superficial laughter, out-of-tune pianoforte music, people, wine, the inevitable descent into drunken stupor.

Life in London, John had come to realise, was just one long, intoxicated oblivion. He couldn’t keep living with his eyes half closed.

What would a pirate do?

That was a stupid question. John didn’t even know what he was thinking; perhaps the drink had already taken its toll. Perhaps he was finally going mad, and he was going to languish in Mary’s attic for the rest of his days, then he would set fire to it, or something of the sort.

Mary had always told him that the Brontes were bad for his overactive imagination. That was why she’d told him to keep a diary, “to calm your fears, darling”, only the diary had only made him dwell on how boring life was.

Maybe Mary was wrong.

“Ah! Doctor!”

Moriarty always addressed him as doctor; nothing more, nothing less. It made John think that maybe he’d forgotten his Christian name, but couldn’t be bothered to ask it.

“I hear that you’ve been well,” he said, laying a clammy hand on John’s shoulder. His speech was already beginning to slur, the words running into each other.

John couldn’t exactly say otherwise, so he responded duly. “I have indeed. And yourself?”

“Splendid,” stated Moriarty. “I must say, though. Your woman over there. She’s quite dazzling.” He made a vague gesture in the direction of Mary, who was out of earshot and conversing with her lady friends.

“Thank you,” said John curty. He knew what was coming next.

“If you...ah, how shall I say this?” Moriarty’s grin was full of teeth, bringing to mind a predatory animal. “If you share...that is, if that’s your philosophy on marriage, well. I would consider her for my mistress. I’d pay, of course.”

John swallowed bile. “I see.”

At once Moriarty noticed John’s expression, and expertly swerved from the subject. “But I see that this does not please you. My apologies if I have offended you, Doctor. Tell me, how is your medical practise faring?”

And thus followed a perfectly mundane conversation about a handful of John’s most recent patients. But John couldn’t forget what Moriarty had said about Mary - he didn’t think he’d ever forget it - and the taste of bile lingered in his throat.

What would a pirate do, if he was dissatisfied? If he was desperate for something: something more. Why, he’d go out and get it, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t wait for the opportune moment. He wouldn’t be a coward. He’d simply take up anchor and move on to clearer seas.

And thus concludes how, by the end of the party, John was still thinking about pirates.


	2. to live and to love and to be happy

_“I wonder ... when it was that the world first went amiss, and men forgot how to live and to love and to be happy.”_

It wasn’t long before John decided to pack his bags for Navron. The very day after that party, in fact, he had calmly informed Mary that he fancied some “sea air”, and no, it was nothing to do with her - he was _“happy,_ dear” - but he needed to go alone. What better place for a holiday than his childhood house in Cornwall? It would be all the solitary rest he needed.

In reality, John hadn’t visited Navron since he was in his late teens and had left for medical school in London. But in his mind, his flitted in and out of its doors like a dreamer; he possessed the place like a ghost, roaming the corridors and gardens of his memory. He always imagined it the same: neat, trimmed hedges, and a tidy, imposing facade looking out onto the sea.

When he arrived on his own, with nothing but a small trunk and one pony, the Navron he met with was vastly different. It was the same, yes: there was the house, and the garden. There was the sea, dark and swirling blue.

But what had changed? Naturally, the garden wasn’t as well-kept as it had once been. But that wasn’t what bothered him; there was something else, something intangible that completely threw him off. It was like looking through a pair of glasses that weren’t quite right: the image was there, but it was subtly distorted.

It _felt_ different: that was it. John shrugged, picked up his trunk, and began his trudge up the drive. He was sure he’d get used to it once he settled in. After all, he hadn’t been here for years. So wasn’t it _him_ who had changed, and not the house?

John was greeted by a servant boy of around eighteen years of age and a pale, withered complexion. He opened the front door for him upon arriving, and quietly offered to take his trunk upstairs.

“I’m fine thank you,” John replied. He was more preoccupied with other things, such as: “How did you get here?”

“Oh,” said the servant boy. “Word was sent from London that you would be coming to stay, sir, so I was sent for you. Victor Trevor, sir - I was born and raised in the neighbouring town.” Then he uttered another “sir” for good measure, before bowing so low that John half expected his nose to touch the dusty carpet.

“I see,” said John. It must have been Mary who had sent word; she was always thinking one step ahead for his wellbeing, although a servant boy was rather unnecessary. “Well, there’s just no need for these kind of pleasantries.” With that, Victor stood up from his bow, slightly red in the face from all the blood having gone to his head. “And you can call me John.”

“Well, sir,” Victor spluttered, “I hardly think that would be proper - “

“Just John.” John walked past him and began to ascend the staircase, to show that the matter was closed.

Victor raced up the stairs to overtake him, muttering something about showing him around the house first.

“There’s no need for that,” remarked John, carrying his trunk up the stairs with ease. “I’m very familiar with this house.”

John did hope that, in his eager desire to please, Victor would not prove to be a nuisance. He’d come here to be left alone, not to be waited on every waking second.

On first inspection, the house looked almost exactly as it had been left. John’s father had died shortly after his son had left for medical school, and his mother had moved to London to live near John not soon after. Since then, no one had come in to remove the furniture or give it a dust (though Victor had clearly tried the latter, with questionable success).

The paintings on the walls remained as John remembered them: imposing portraits of family members past, those he had heard stories about but never had the chance to meet. John’s father’s decor - rather outdated, John thought, though he looked upon it endearingly - lived on, in the cherry red wallpaper and mahogany chairs and cabinets. The master bedroom remained to be seen.

“The master bedroom, sir - John.” Victor went before him and opened the door.

It was in this room that John felt that strange feeling again; the feeling that something fundamental but impalpable had changed. A shift in the air. An invisible stirring.

“I think I shall rest here and unpack my things,” said John uneasily.

“Of course,” said Victor. John listened to the sound of his retreating steps down the stairs before he put his trunk down and began a closer inspection of the room.

Nights spent with Mary in the London clubs had made John observant. He’d always taken it upon himself to make a quick judgement of someone he’d just met, and to scour his surroundings for anything that might be of danger to him. This room was no different: though it had once been familiar to him, it reeked of possible danger.

The bed was the same four-poster John’s parents had once slept in. And it was made, yes - with smoothed-down sheets and hospital corners - but the pillows looked unusually ruffled. As if someone had slept on them recently.

Then there was the case of the dresser: a huge, ugly, mahogany thing that John had always hated. This was all in order - the surfaces were sparkling and dust-free. But it was the patch of wallpaper behind it that John’s eye was drawn to. Because over the dull pink colour of the wall, someone had painted a small yellow smiley face. It was a crude, rushed drawing, of only two dots for eyes and a lazy upwards slash for a mouth.

Funny.

John could have overlooked these subtle changes, or dismissed them as tricks of his tired imagination, had it not been for the final damning piece of evidence. Lying in the spot of sunlight underneath the window, on the ground like a broken limb, was a bow. It must have once belonged to a string instrument - a violin, perhaps, though John had never been appreciative of music - but now it had been separated from its other half.

John walked across the room to where it lay and picked it up, turning it this way and that in his hand. With each turn, his uneasy feeling grew.

There had been someone here.

It couldn’t have been Victor, who clearly didn’t have the education to be dallying around with music. Besides, was an uptight, duteous servant like him likely to even think about graffitiing on the wall?

So someone else must have been staying here. Someone John didn’t know about…

It was too much. John needed some fresh air to clear his head - after all, he hadn’t come here to fret; he’d come to relax. A brisk stroll through the garden would be just the thing.

It was late afternoon, and the sun pressed down on the tops of the trees, as if the trees were holding it up. When John opened the front door, he found that the entire garden was bathed in reluctant yellow light.

The garden was certainly in good shape, John mused as he made his way down the driveway. Someone must have been keeping it while he’d been away; there was no other explanation for the neatness of the hedges and the trim of the grass.

Whoever had been keeping the garden, however, hadn’t done a thorough job of it. Around the edges, tangles of hydrangeas and rhododendrons crowded the undergrowth, overwhelming it with their dark greens and spoiled purples. The woodland beyond was dominated by sprawling bluebells and wild daisies, no plant distinguishable from another.

Secretly, John much preferred it that way. The wildness of the place thrilled him, perhaps because it was so different to the structured, regimented life of London. These wildflowers had no agenda, nor the sea beyond any ulterior motive. The trees wouldn’t ask him vulgar questions, nor answer back in cryptic tones.

The best part of John’s walk through this delightful jungle was as peaceful as he’d imagined it to be. For a fleeting second, he truly believed that this trip would restore his spirits like he hoped it would.

This peace was shattered as a lumbering shape came bounding out of the shrubbery towards him.

“Agh!” John raised his hands in front of his face in self defence, having barely had time to register what was happening. The shape pawed at him and let loose a stream of successive growls.

A _dog_. John lowered his hands in confusion.

It was a red setter, and it looked excited to see him more than anything. It stepped back and began to trot circles around him, its tongue lolling out of its mouth contentedly.

“Where did you come from?” said John out loud, before realising that talking to a dog wouldn’t get him anywhere.

The dog barked once as if in answer, then turned abruptly and loped off back into the trees and out of sight.

John frowned and headed back in the direction of the house - he must ask Victor about this. He was too badly shaken for any more garden walking, and besides, the sunlight was fading. As he walked back up the drive, the whisper of the sea in his ears, he couldn’t help wondering whether coming here had been a good idea after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses as to whose dog that is?


	3. all his more searching dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely comments! Enjoy the next instalment.

_“It does happen, you know, from time to time, that a man finds a woman who is the answer to all his more searching dreams. And the two have understanding of each other, from the lightest moment to the darkest mood.”_

It had been a week spent in relative peace at Navron, and John still hadn’t found the answers to his questions. The dog, Victor claimed, was a stray, and wandered the garden from time to time. The violin bow in the bedroom, Victor _alleged_ , was rubbish left over from when John’s parents had lived in the house. (Though John knew that this was not true, as he had no recollections of the violin from his childhood.)

But John was willing to overlook the confusion if it meant that he could enjoy his time here. He _did_ enjoy it here; in fact, it was everything he’d wanted. He’d already devised a little daily routine: lie in, walk by the sea, luncheon, walk through the garden, then an evening of food cooked by Victor and reading by the fire. The walks were bracing and scenic; the house was delightful, with its library and fully furnished dining room; Victor’s cooking could have been worse. Plus, the servant boy left him alone for the most part.

One morning, John decided to explore the area further. He felt as if he knew the garden well enough by now; it would be an injustice not to expand to the countryside beyond. So he woke up early - at the hour when the sun was just grazing the horizon - put on his muddiest pair of boots, and set out before Victor had woken up.

He began what he liked to call his Cornish Tour by taking the road away from the town. After all, he didn’t fancy meeting anyone on his walk, as he had grown accustomed to solitariness. Part of him had blissfully forgotten how to make proper conversation.

The road was flanked on either side by beech trees, their branches arching overhead in what looked like a natural cathedral. As the sun wasn’t fully up yet, the effect of that was a gloomy, green darkness, making John feel as though he really were in the wild, like some kind of adventurer.

John had always loved adventure stories. The feeling of being so far away from reality never ceased to thrill him, and when he opened his well-thumbed copies of _Treasure Island_ or _Tom Sawyer_ , he was back in the stories again as if he’d never left. He’d never told Mary about this. And he’d _certainly_ never told Mary about the pirate whom he kept dreaming about.

After half an hour of wandering, the road gave way to woods. The unruly nature of the undergrowth, and the greens and golds of the rising sun, made John feel as if he truly were the first one to discover all this. He’d never been happier to wander aimlessly.

The twittering and warbling of the birds made a fine contrast to the chatter and bustle of London. There were no parties here; only the society of nature, which John vastly preferred to anything else.

John stopped in his tracks. There was a sound other than that of the birds: he was sure of it. If he listened closely, he thought he could make out the distant plucking of strings.

He took a few steps forward, hoping to get closer to the source. Just as he’d suspected, it grew louder the further he went - so loud, that he could almost make out a tune. It had a mournful air, a minor key.

So he wasn’t alone.

As if to confirm the thought, John heard the snapping of a twig behind him. But before he could turn round, his vision went dark and he found his arms pinned to his back.

John couldn’t scream for help if he’d tried; and this spot was so remote that help wouldn’t have come. His face was smothered by a cloth, and every breath brought dust and dirt into his lungs.

But even if he couldn’t make a sound, he could fight. His years as a doctor had taught him a thing or two about the human body, including where to make it hurt the most.

He lashed out with his legs, hoping to sweep his invisible attacker to the ground. But he missed - instead, he was taken roughly by the elbows and dragged to who-knew-where.

Now, panic began to rise up in him. He could be going anywhere, and he’d lose his bearings. And who in Cornwall wanted him, John Watson, hurt?

These thoughts were shaken off as his attacker suddenly let go, leaving him to sink to the ground. All John could hear was a voice.

“Who are you?” Asked the voice.

John used the first name that came to his addled mind. “Victor Trevor.”

The voice was so low it was almost a growl. “You’re lying.”

John was surprised at how steady his own voice sounded when he said, “What’s it to you who I am? As if you have the right to just go around kidnapping people.”

“As if _you_ have the right to trespass on my property.”

“Your property? These woods are English Heritage!” Cried John indignantly.

“I take what I please,” was the voice’s petulant answer. But John had won: his attacker sounded like a child after a good telling-off.

“Now for God’s sake untie me. And take this bloody sack off my head, while you’re at it.” Retorted John.

“If you saw my face, I’d have to kill you.”

John was going to scoff, until he realised that he was actually powerless in this situation. He was unarmed, on the ground, and with a sack over his head. His wit would only get him so far.

When it was clear that the voice wasn’t going to say anything further, John said into the darkness, “So - you’re just going to leave me here?”

There was no answer. His attacker was either biding his time, or he’d abandoned John in this wood. _Unbelievable_.

John clawed at the ropes binding his hands, but they proved impressively strong. When he’d exhausted himself with the ropes, he attempted to stand up, losing his balance every time he thought he’d made progress.

He was almost resigned to giving up, when he felt something warm on his hands. Then he heard the contented panting of a dog.

John could have cried in relief. This dog could help him! If only he could get it to gnaw off his ropes.

He felt for the dog’s muzzle, and was rewarded by a bark in his ear. Then, with considerable difficulty, he moved his wrists to where the dog was.

The dog seemed to think that it was being offered a chew toy. In no time, John’s hands were free and he immediately took the sack off his head to be greeted by his saviour.

“It can’t be…” But it was. The same red setter that John had seen in his garden only days before stared up at him, a tangle of ropes in its mouth.

John crouched down to give the dog a grateful pat. “Good boy,” he said, not caring who heard him. He was past caring about anything other than getting away from here.

He looked up. His surroundings were just as inscrutable as they had been before: a mess of trees, the sunlight hampered by the canopy above. And the dog was walking away, further into the undergrowth.

John would be damned if he didn’t follow.

The dog led him through a twist of trees and into a bright glade, where close by the waters of an estuary could be seen lapping against...a ship.

It wasn’t a large ship by any means - but it was magnificent. Clearly, whoever owned the ship had taken great pride in it, for it was scrubbed clean and it’s paint was as bright as if it had been painted yesterday.

But John’s view of the ship was obscured by a tall, regal-looking man who was striding away from it and towards the dog. “Redbeard!” He said, stroking the dog’s ears affectionately.

The dog - Redbeard - jumped up excitedly as the man gave him his full attention.

The stranger, whose ship this must have been, was an unusual sight to John. Namely this was because, despite obviously living in the wild, he was so immaculate. His skin was pale as porcelain, his hair was curled perfectly, and there was not a speck of dirt on his longcoat.

Nor was there a speck of dust on the gleaming cutlass he swung at his side.

The man turned to John. The look of surprise vanished from his face as quickly as it had come. “How did you escape?” He said, a line of confusion appearing between his eyebrows. “You’re not a very good hostage. Of all the hostages I’ve had, actually, you’re the worst.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My exams are finishing soon, so I'll be updating more frequently!


	4. in reality it was escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no post! My exams are finished, which means I've had more time to write.

_“—in reality it was escape she wanted, escape from her own self—”_

The stranger played the violin, had a dog named Redbeard, and polished his cutlass as if it were his most prized possession.

These were just a few of the things that John had learned as his hostage.

Though he hadn’t learned the stranger’s name yet.

And had John mentioned that he was a pirate?

The pirate kept him captive for three days in total. John dimly wondered if anyone missed him, if anyone had sent out a search party. But these concerns were largely lost to him, and floated away like pieces of driftwood out to sea.

The first night, the pirate cooked for him. He had a small, ragtag crew of men, all with scraggly beards and scars on their faces. They huddled around the fire, chattering quietly among themselves in guttural French, eyeing John every now and then with suspicion. It was clear who was the captain, for the pirate could silence them with a pointed wave of his hand.

The sky darkened to the deep, inky blue that John had only seen soaked in rich clothes. He watched the fire throw sparks into its darkness, watched those sparks fly up and disappear. The smell of cooking fish drew him closer until he could feel the heat on his face. The pirate leaned over the fire, his own face glowing, turning over the fish with mathematical precision.

“What brings you to Cornwall?” He asked in a hushed tone, to John’s surprise.

“Well, I was minding my own business,” began John, “and the notion struck me: wouldn’t it be jolly to be kidnapped by a crazy pirate? What a _smashing_ idea of a holiday.”

He looked up at John with a furrowed brow. “Really?”

“No, obviously not,” huffed John. Of course the man didn’t understand sarcasm. The only language he knew, John suspected, was the language of the waves. And kidnapping people.

The pirate just frowned and went back to his cooking as if John wasn’t there. Redbeard trotted towards the fire, scratching at the logs then shrinking back when they burned his paws.

“Here,” said the pirate tersely, tossing John a slate with some mangled fish upon it. For all its unappetising looks, it tasted heavenly. The last thing that John had eaten had been a rushed breakfast at Navron, before the sun had even risen. He wondered what Victor was doing now; perhaps he was going about his usual duties, oblivious to his master’s absence. Or perhaps he was out searching.

John asked himself often why the pirate went to such pains to keep him hostage. For all the airs he put on, he didn’t threaten John at all. Instead, he and his crew went about their own business, while John remained in the background as another mouth to feed, another bed to fill.

He slept on the port, under the stars. And, he must confess, he hadn’t slept so well in months.

Despite having nothing to do, John certainly wasn’t idle. He sought to learn what he could about the pirate’s business.

His pirate kept to an erratic schedule. One day he was up at the crack of dawn, clambering up the mast to attend to some repairs; the next, he emerged from his room well past noon, drowsy and moody. John could sometimes see into his office, where he smoked, plucked at his bowless violin, or scribbled letters.

To John’s surprise, his pirate didn’t interact much with his crew. He was, in fact, a solitary captain, only speaking to others when was absolutely necessary. The most John had heard him say was to one crew member: “Is that a great horned owl?”

“No, sir,” the man had replied. “It’s a burrowing owl.”

“I see.”

Though the rest of the crew spoke to each other in French, the captain insisted on addressing them in perfect English. That, thought John, was what intrigued him the most about his pirate. That he was equal parts gentleman and savage. Violent at turns, cruel even, but as excellent a cook as any housewife. His very existence was built upon plunder and crime, yet his manner was unfailingly polite. John was his hostage, yes, but he was also his guest.

On the third day, John learned his name.

It was midmorning. John was standing on the deck, gazing out at the sea. He didn’t notice him approach from behind. “You’re thinking,” he said.

John nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t forgotten the terror of having a sack thrown over his head, the struggle of capture. He was still wary. “You’re not wrong.”

“What about?”

John sighed, and turned the question back on his captor. “What are _you_ thinking about?”

“You.”

The short, sharp answer surprised John. Nonetheless, he pursued it. “Really? What about me?”

“That I hardly know anything about you.” He deliberately avoided John’s eyes.

“Well, why don’t we start with names?” said John, slightly mockingly.

They said their names at the same time. “Sherlock.” “John.”

“That’s a funny name for a pirate,” John mused.

“What were you expecting?” retorted Sherlock.

“I don’t know - Cap’n Jack. Cutthroat Jim.”

He frowned. “I don’t cut throats.”

The conversation was like a rally: back and forth, with no winner. “What do you do, then? Other than kidnap people?”

Sherlock twisted a ring on his finger. “We take back what has been stolen, and we give the riches to those whose right it is to have it.”

Stealing from the rich, and giving to the poor. That wasn’t the piracy of John’s storybook adventures. “I see.”

The creek was beautiful, in its wild, dark way. John’s gaze swept over it as they talked, taking it in. He realised that he quite liked it here.

Then he asked, “Why kidnapping, if you’re so virtuous?”

“When you came across the ship,” Sherlock reasoned, “you looked to me like one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The high society sorts.” He wrinkled his nose at the very thought. “The rich men who sit in their houses and take the land for themselves. If I’d let you go, you would have gone running to your policemen, and where would we be?” He gestured to the ship behind them, and the crew going about their daily chores. Then he turned his calculating gaze back on John. “But, since you’ve been in my company, it’s clear that you aren’t one of them."

John felt courageous for a reason he could not explain. “What am I, then?”

“You’re different.” The words rang out into the hollow.

Then the spell was broken; his pirate (John didn’t know why he still thought of him of _his_ pirate, as if he were a figment of his imagination) turned away as if no words had been spoken.

John left the pirates’ company shortly afterwards, having signed a pledge of secrecy. When he returned to Navron, shouldering open the front door and probably looking like a scrap of his former self, Victor was surprisingly calm.

“Did you enjoy your visit home, sir?” he said upon John’s arrival, looking pleased with himself for his cordial welcome. Then he saw John’s state, and cried, aghast, “Sir!”

“Never mind,” said John, smiling to himself as if he and his pirate shared a secret. How far from a visit home it had been. “It was just the wind, that’s all.”


End file.
